


Forget-Me-Nots and Marigolds

by Champagne



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Crushes, Emotional Abuse, Gaslighting, Introspection, It gets better I promise, minor physical abuse, unhealthy relationship dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:28:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24228130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Champagne/pseuds/Champagne
Summary: His relationship with his mother changed in stages.His relationship with Jon changed in a similar yet opposite way.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 111





	Forget-Me-Nots and Marigolds

**Author's Note:**

> it was Be Sad About Martin hours on the discord server so I decided to finally post this...
> 
> a lot of this comes from a very personal place for me and I projected Hard on my boy Martin, and I'm so sorry Martin ksjdnfakls

Looking back, he remembers the first time things started to change. It wasn’t exactly a subtle change, but he was only a boy at the time, and the intricacies of his mother’s pain escaped him-- and still do, most of the time. He can’t understand causing other people pain just because he might be in pain himself, but he’s also well aware that that’s probably a byproduct of his upbringing.

The first thing was his mother denying the existence of his father entirely.

“Mum?” Martin noticed immediately that all of the family pictures they had were gone. There were spots on the wall where old pictures used to hang, places on the tops of cabinets or dressers that were clear of dust like something was once there but is now gone. He was still reeling at the sudden departure of his father, but he was trying to adjust. “What happened to all of the pictures?”

“What pictures?” she asked, like he was asking her some incomprehensible question. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Martin is sure that, as experienced as he is now, he could have seen the brightness of her eyes, the borderline mania, the unbalanced emotions that led her to getting rid of all of the signs that he once had a father. The next day he noticed that dad’s favorite statue, a small brass casting of an eagle, was gone. The day after he noticed the bags upon bags of clothes sitting next to the front door, waiting to go out. He didn’t piece it together until years later that his mother was throwing them away and not donating them-- because donating was too much of a kindness.

Martin was just starting high school when he found his mother’s stash of pictures. Stacks upon stacks, broken frames and cracked glass and torn photos of them all, with Martin at varying ages. He never brought it up to her, because he was afraid of her reaction. He didn’t know why he was afraid of her reaction.

# 

* * *

The next change was something Martin didn’t place until many years later.

“Martin,” she’d say. “The dishes need to be done.” And that was that.

It felt unfair to say no to her, even if he was in the middle of something, so he always did as he was told. She’d tell him to do something, and he’d do it with no fuss, because she was his mother. Why wouldn’t he do as she told him?

He was just growing into being a teenager when he started ignoring her demands, and it wasn’t long after that that he started doing them again. He couldn’t handle the disappointed, angry look in her eyes, the harsh frown on her face, or the click of her tongue whenever she saw that he didn’t do as she said. It felt too much like an insult, after the first few times, and he did still love her. So he started doing as she told him to, and she started smiling at him again.

He loved his mother’s smile.

# 

* * *

As he got older, he grew into his relationship with his mother.

She was still his mother, of course, but he was more comfortable with her as he entered secondary school. He’d joke with her as he did the dishes, tell her about his day as he made them tea, and sometimes she’d smile and nod and listen, and it was good.

He doesn’t remember exactly what happened, what they were talking about, but he remembers vividly the event itself.

He said something, and she responded with a roll of her eyes and more words, and he lightly swatted at her shoulder as he laughed.

And then he was seeing stars and trying not to fall over. His face stung, his eyes burned with tears, and he didn’t know what was happening, where he was, until his mother’s hand was gripping his shoulder and making him look at her.

Her face was stern, but she was frowning. Martin doesn’t remember clearly what happened after that. He just remembers his shock, his surprise, and the bone deep hurt that reverberated through him, because--

His mother hit him. He didn’t ever consider her to be violent, or abusive, but she _hit him_ , and he felt such an intense burning of betrayal raze through him and leave him cold as ice and numb.

Something changed again, after that. Martin didn’t like touching anyone anymore. Something about the idea, about the possibility of retaliation, made it so hard for him to reach out and touch people anymore. Physical contact was quickly becoming foreign to him, because he didn’t want to feel that kind of pain or betrayal again.

And then his mother got sick.

Martin didn’t bother even considering universities, and got a job as soon as he was able to.

That didn’t stop his mother from making her demands, though. Martin knew it wasn’t her fault she was so snippy all the time, that it was because of her chronic pain and new illness and the whole host of other health issues that decided to spring up out of the blue.

But he was so tired, whenever he got home from work. He did what he could to make sure she was fed and taken care of, but it was difficult to shore up the energy to make anything more than a frozen pizza or dinner meals. And that didn’t stop his mother from complaining about the food, even after he’d worked ten hour shifts for six days in a row.

He remembered the first time she threatened him.

“Martin,” she called, and he stopped what he was doing to force himself onto his throbbing, aching legs and go to her. She was swatting around for something, and she said to him, “Give me my glasses.”

Martin stared at them, sitting on top of her head, and wondered if he could just tell her or if he’d have to pick them up off of her head and hand them to her.

He was silent for one second too long, and she snapped, “So help me, child, give me my glasses or get out.”

He still isn’t sure if she was serious. He isn’t even sure she was saying get out of the house or just out of her room, but--

That didn’t stop it from stinging. He ended up picking the glasses up off of her head and handing them to her.

She muttered, “Useless boy.” under her breath, and Martin left before she could start berating him further.

After that, she was worse.

“I told you to do the dishes!” she’d say, even though she said no such thing. Even though there weren’t any dishes that needed to be cleaned, save for a glass and some silverware.

“Why didn’t you take out the trash?” she’d ask, even though Martin brought out the trash that morning. Even when he tried to say he had, even though he knew for a fact-- did he?-- that he’d taken out the trash, she’d shake her head and point and ask, “Then what is that?” It didn’t matter if anything was there.

Martin stopped arguing with her a long time ago. He just did as he was told. He tried to preemptively meet her demands, with food and tea and movies and chores, and sometimes he succeeded. Sometimes he got a smile out of her, a pinched thing but still there, and it all felt worth it, to see her smile at him.

“Thank you, Martin,” she’d say.

“Thank you, dear.”

“Thanks.”

It took many, many years for Martin to hear the undercurrent beneath those words. To hear the irritation, the disdain, the fire.

He ignored it. What else could he do? He did as he was told and did his best to take care of her, because he was her son and she deserved that much from him.

# 

* * *

Working in the archives was an old hat before a week had even passed him by.

Tim and Sasha were nice people, but Martin felt well worn anxiety wrap around him like a blanket at any mention of spending time together outside of work. And on top of that, he tried not to, but he knew that he flinched every time Tim patted his shoulder or Sasha moved too quickly. The look in their eyes, curious and wary and heartbroken, was something unfamiliar to him, and he decided to deal with that by not addressing it at all.

It only took a few attempts at asking him about it before they gave up. It was better if they didn’t try to get too close to him anyway, because he knew he was bound to be just a disappointment to them, someone too plain to be interesting.

With Jon, it was more than just an old hat. It was a routine carved into his bones and memorized by his muscles.

Martin recognized the way Jon looked at him with sharp expectancy, waiting for him to do whatever it was Jon asked of him-- and he felt at home in the way Jon grumbled complaints whenever Martin did something wrong or in an unsatisfactory way. It didn’t come out as harsh as he was used to, but the undertone of irritation and disappointment was familiar enough that it settled against his shoulders like a threadbare quilt, and it was comforting. He knew how to deal with this, more or less. Juggling Jon’s wants and needs was different than it was with his mother, because his lack of self care came from some kind of near malicious forgetfulness and not inability, but he asked for more or less the same things from him.

Get this. Give me that. Write this down. Go do this.

He tried his best, and sometimes it paid off.

Jon pursed his lips but nodded, reading over what Martin had handed him for his supplementary research. “I suppose this will have to do,” he grumbled, and Martin was knocked breathless for a moment.

“I-is there anything else you need?” Martin asked, and knew that Jon wouldn’t notice how winded and choked he sounded. The bare minimum praise vibrated through him and warmed him still, as Jon shook his head and dismissed him with a wave.

He liked doing things for Jon. It made him feel better than when he did things for his mother, which-- was odd, but he tried not to think too hard about it. He could hear her say those same words clearly in his mind, as she had plenty of times before, and it warmed him in much the same way, but it didn’t take his breath away. That was new.

Martin pieced together what it all meant a few weeks later, and it left a sour taste in his mouth.

Jon emerged from his office with an open folder, his eyes trained on the page as he walked over to where the assistants were working at their desks. Martin stopped immediately, waiting for him to say something, but Tim and Sasha just glanced at him and continued on with their work.

A few moments later, Jon asked, voice half a mumble, “Who had the…” he flipped a page, then continued, “Who had the Bailey statement?”

Martin felt shame pinch his insides, and it was Tim that said, “Martin, I think.” because the words were caught in Martin’s throat. He searched Jon’s face for familiar signs of anger, but all he saw was a thoughtful furrow to his brow and a slight frown.

He swallowed the words down and forced others to come out, asking, “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Jon said, nearly humming it. He didn’t look up as he flipped through it again, and did hum this time, an odd note to the sound that Martin couldn’t name. “It’s very thorough.”

The shame twisted and contorted inside of him at the same time a chill ran down his back like cold water. “Is...something wrong with it?” he asked, because he wasn’t sure what point Jon was trying to make.

Jon looked up, finally, and his frown deepened when he aimed it at Martin, which was more familiar territory and eased the heat in his gut. “No,” he said, with enough of an upward inflection to make it a question. “Just.” He sighed through his nose, and turned to start back to his office. “Good work, Martin.”

Martin’s face near burst into flames, and as Jon’s office door clicked shut he thought to himself, _oh_. _I...like him_. _Oh_.

He wanted his approval desperately, far more desperately than he wanted from his own mother. He wasn’t sure what to do about that, not really. Not for a while, anyway. All he could think of was the long list of things he did for his own mother, but a lot of that was inconceivable, especially because Martin felt sick the moment he briefly considered asking Jon where he lived. It was far too personal of a question, and he knew it wasn’t a safe question to ask regardless of whether or not he and Jon were close enough to share the information anyway. He knew getting close to Jon was like trying to hug a cactus, but he also knew of plenty of adorable cacti that were almost fuzzy if touched the right way.

So he reduced the list to things he could do in the archives, during work hours.

It was weird, when Jon first thanked him for bringing him tea.

Martin knew he was using Jon as a proxy for his mother, by that point, but he didn’t know what else to do. He wasn’t sure how to handle the new layers on top of his own desire to please and be useful, because they were layers never present whenever he visited his mother. So he did his best to think of Jon as someone adjacent to her, in his head. He was as demanding, as snippy, as-- in plenty of ways, Jon reminded him of his mother before all of this started, and it was easy enough to fall into a routine with him.

Do as he’s told, get half hearted praise, rinse and repeat. But it burned brighter than any praise he ever received from his mother, and it felt just as likely to fuel him as it did to burn him to ash.

It was a dichotomy that rolled around inside of him like a stone with sharp edges. He tried his best not to think too hard about the similarities between them, and the differences that made his head spin.

And Martin pointedly ignored the pitying looks he got from Tim and Sasha, whenever he tried to do something for Jon, because he knew they didn’t understand. Jon was awful at taking care of himself, so Martin had to-- It was a familiar setup, and he didn’t mind, not really. It was safe ground.

The change started with Prentiss.

Martin can still hear, as clear as any recording on supernatural tape recorders, Jon ask him, “Martin, are you sure about this?” with something like concern in his voice. It was a little lost under his issues with tone modulation (which Martin had learned about second hand through Tim, because Martin couldn’t even conceive of a world where it was an accident to coat words with acid) but the expression on Jon’s face was genuinely worried. Brow furrowed, frowning, eyes bright with concern-- Martin didn’t know how to handle it.

He wanted to make a statement, because that’s what Jon wanted, right? That was their job--

He was at a loss, when Jon shot him down. He didn’t know what else Jon might want from him, given that he missed over two weeks of work because of a supernatural worm woman. If Martin couldn’t even be an assistant, couldn’t be any kind of useful person in Jon’s life, then he might as well not work there-- even if the pay was far more than he’d find anywhere else, especially because of lying on his CV, and even if he so desperately wanted to because it made him feel something _different_ , but.

Anyway. It was a week after Jon told him to stay in the archives, because it was safer.

Martin knew he was imposing. He knew that, because his mother was being taken care of in a home, his flat was empty save for garbage and dust. He knew that it was more than capable of housing him safely, as it had for two weeks, but the thought of going back was too much.

So he knew he was imposing. He was well aware of that. He didn’t know what to do about it, though. He was doing his best at work, trying to make himself even more useful to Jon because what else was there? He could still go out and research statements, but Jon was more reluctant to send him out now, and that was both irritating and easing to his already frayed nerves.

It was on one day that Jon sent out Sasha instead of Martin that he decided to try his hand at making tea again. It had been a long time since he’d made it for someone else, the last time being his mother before she needed constant care. He picked up both steaming cups and went over to Jon’s office, knocking on the door.

“Come in.”

Jon was up to his eyeballs in notes, but he looked up when Martin entered.

“I brought tea,” Martin said, even though it was obvious. He waved the cup around, looking for a safe spot to set it down on Jon’s desk but finding none.

“Oh.” And Jon began to clear a section, not necessarily keeping his notes organized. He freed up a spot in the top left corner and motioned to it, watching Martin set down the cup of tea with a pinched expression that Martin recognized as Jon thinking hard about something.

“Do you need anything from me?” Martin asked, old words, a worn mantra in his mouth. He surprised himself with how desperately he wanted the answer to be a yes, but he kept his mouth shut.

Jon chewed on his lower lip. Martin watched that, waiting for Jon to give him something to do to make himself useful.

Then he said, “No, not at the moment.” A pause, then he added, “Thank you, Martin.”

The words rattled around in his head as he nodded and made his exit, knowing better than to linger. They bounced around like an echo with no escape. Martin didn’t know what to make of it, because--

It’s not like nobody ever thanked him for what he did. Gratitude was usually reflexive, in people. If someone did something for them, they said thanks, Martin knew that. Tim liked to add ridiculous pet names to the end of his thanks, and Sasha always said it brightly and with a matching smile.

Jon didn’t say thanks. That wasn’t a reflex he ever seemed to have. So hearing it was. Odd.

Martin blinked, and thought about why.

Gratitude wasn’t the weird part about it. Jon liked to gripe and grumble, but he did, on occasion, say ‘thank you’, terse and short and peevish. It wasn’t the words themselves that felt odd, not really.

“Thank you, Martin,” he heard his mother say, in the back of his head. Harsh, clipped, expectant.

“Thank you, Martin,” he heard Jon say, still rattling around his brain. Awkward, grumbled, but grateful.

Martin was suddenly having a much more difficult time equating Jon’s behavior to his mother’s. With just two words and his name, Jon separated himself from the tumultuous undercurrent of thoughts and emotions he had about his mother and cast himself off into oblivion, unmoored and drifting.

It made his head hurt. It made his _heart_ hurt. Martin really didn’t want to have to puzzle out how things were different now, between him and Jon, but ignoring it wasn’t an option either. If he crossed a new boundary he didn’t know about, one that materialized because of this new tone to Jon’s voice with him, he--

He stopped himself from thinking about it, with a harsh, familiar hand slapped down on the thoughts.

Martin checked the time, something of a nervous habit, and forced himself to inhabit his own body again. It was well past lunch, and Jon hadn’t emerged from his office since showing up that morning.

He turned around and walked back into Jon’s office with a brief knock. Jon peered up at him with narrowed eyes, and asked, “What is it now, Martin.”

He sounded irritated and dismissive. It was a familiar tone.

“Have you eaten?” Martin asked. “It’s almost one.”

Jon pointedly looked away, his face coloring a little, and he grumbled, “I’m busy, Martin.”

It was like a switch was flipped. Martin felt the anxiety flare in his chest moments before he said the words, “Work will still be here after lunch.”

He half expected-- he isn’t sure what he expected. His cheek stung at the distant, vivid memory, but Jon just gave him a withering glare and sighed.

“You’re not going to give this up, are you,” Jon said, and stood. Martin didn’t know what to say to that, because Jon was more than capable of dismissing him but he didn’t.

So Martin said, “No.” because that seemed to be what Jon was expecting from him.

Jon gave him such an awkward, small, brief smile that it might as well not have happened, but it made his stomach flop around anyway, and made his skin feel like it was directly beneath the sun.

That was definitely different from his mother. That wasn’t a smile he would ever get from her, not after everything.

Martin decided he might as well take the time to figure out just what the differences were between Jon and his mother, down to the smallest detail. It suddenly seemed very important.

“Where are we going?” Jon asked, with a heavy sigh that made his shoulders sag, but the annoyance in his voice didn’t reach his eyes.

Martin felt odd at the thought that he knew Jon had very expressive eyes.

“There’s this new place down the road,” Martin said. It wasn’t completely new, a few months old, but he felt it safe to say that Jon didn’t know it existed. He spent too much time in the archives and not enough time out and about, enjoying his life while he had the freedom to.

“Alright,” Jon said, and put on his coat with another sigh. He motioned out of his office, and his expression fell back into its usual vague irritation. “Lead the way.”

Martin started walking, with Jon at his side.


End file.
